


Open, Waiting

by night_reveals



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anticipation, Blow Jobs, Digital Art, Gags, M/M, Phone Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur deserves a soft place to sink into after a hard job. </p><p>Let's be honest. Eames' mouth was made for this.</p><p>[art included]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open, Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Written and drawn long ago for one of cherrybina's [fests](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/211815.html), this is the first (and thankfully last) time I drew something for Inception.
> 
> I'm pretty sure this is creepy, ftr.

Holding his breath, Eames applies chapstick over his lips, more than acclimated to the wax residue and faux-strawberry scent it leaves behind. 

The first time Eames played at being a woman he was barely been able to stomach the chemical scent and unnatural slide of chapstick, but now he has a small collection he’s built up over the years that travels with him. He even paid for all of them, keeping to his personal rule of buying anything that costs less than five pounds.

Eames met Arthur a decade after his first real-life forgery (a poorly done Kupka in boarding school) and months after his first in-dream one (Marge, a little old lady who lived by the sea). An even thicker shroud of mysticism surrounded forgers back then, and Eames will never forget shedding Marge in front of Arthur, watching Arthur’s eyes widen in the shock of the newly converted. When they came up from the dream, Arthur spluttered at him, _But your lips_ , and Eames lifted an eyebrow. Arthur said, sheepishly, _I thought they were fake too_.

That was, if not the beginning of it all, at least the the start of the beginning. It's definitely why Eames carries around four different kinds of lip balm.

From the corner of the apartment the architect for his current job calls, “Eames, let’s go,” and Eames has to tear himself out of his memories. Time to go to work.

 

The congratulations from a job well done still ringing in his ears, Eames dials a number from memory. It's picked up in one ring.

“Job’s finished,” he says, already opening the door to his hotel room. He holds a canvas duffel bag in one hand, the weight of cash and a change of clothes digging the strap into his fingers.

Over the line there’s silence for a second. “This one is going a bit long,” admits Arthur, and Eames can imagine the cant of his shoulder into the night, Arthur’s pinched eyebrows.

“How much longer?” asks Eames as he throws his bag onto the bed.

“Two days, maybe three.” Arthur sighs into the phone, not even bothering to angle it away from the receiver. The wind tunnel effect echoes in Eames’ ear and he wants to smile but the _two days, maybe three_ means he’s got to exercise patience, something he’s running low on lately.

“I’ll wait for you there, then.”

They both hangup at the same time.

 

Hours later Eames walks into a safe-house in Albany to a brown paper package waiting for him on the kitchen counter where he left it unwrapped two weeks ago. There’s no need to open it to confirm what is inside -- the nondescript packaging is tip-off enough. But with Arthur finally coming home after two months of separation, Eames has to unwrap it and get it out in the open at last.

In a few quick seconds he cuts open the top and reaches inside, laying it onto the tile of the kitchen counters. Now that Eames has got the thing right in front of him, cold steel and black leather straps under his fingers, his conviction wavers. 

Though they’ve experimented here and there, it feels different this time; Arthur’s expecting to come home, to get the job fucked out of him, and then to go get dinner. He won’t be expecting this. It’s not that Eames is complaining about that sequence of events, either, but he can’t lie: he’s looked forward to this for months, welcoming Arthur home in a different way.

At the back of the leather strap there is a customized radial lock, the reason that Eames didn’t buy this in a random shop. He doesn’t have many toys -- they aren’t easy to cross borders with -- but he splurged for this one and the lock isn't an easy one to pick. Light from the kitchen window glances off the whole thing and it’s so beautiful that Eames just has to try it on, has to stretch his mouth into the perfect shape. It’s brand new but he gives it a wash anyway, scrubbing till bubbles form on its surface. 

He lifts it to his face experimentally.

The four silver spikes at the outside cling to his face after he slips it over his head, the top two digging in the tiniest bit as he cinches it closed at the back. He’s fucking ridiculous, standing at the sink all alone and drooling into his own hands, but he can’t help it. The circle in the front is _made_ for Arthur to fit through, and the measurements must have worked because Eames is feeling that same burn at the edge of his lips that he does when Arthur fucks his mouth, making Eames almost cringe at the stretch.

With a shiver of shock Eames realizes he could wear this all day, let spit run down his chin, squirt water into his mouth when he’s thirsty, smear on lip balm when his lips dry up – because at the end of a job Arthur’s cock deserves a soft mouth to fuck into.

It comes off eventually not because Eames tires of its weight but because he needs to go to the post office. He takes the key and Arthur’s current address with him.

 

Express air mail takes less than twenty-four hours throughout most of North America, so when Eames receives a text from Arthur the next day, “ _? key?_ ” he’s not surprised, though he has to take a deep breath and try not to palm him own dick. Arthur will be home in less than a day, which means it’s safe for Eames to start now.

The lock at the back can be done up without the key, and when it slides home the ring fits in his mouth as well as it did yesterday, cold at first on his tongue and gums. He takes the picture as quickly as he can, phone held up awkwardly close to show off the pink of his palette, the dark dip of his uvula. By the time he's taken a good one it's too late and he's started drooling over the metal and his lips.

A few flicks of his finger and the picture is in Arthur’s inbox.

  


Eames starts counting down the time it takes to get from Vancouver to Albany.


End file.
